


Within You Without You

by Defcon



Series: Life Flows On [2]
Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV), The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Character Study, Fix-It, Gen, M/M, Pre-Coldflash, Shades of Quantum Leap, Spoilers for Legends 1x15, Timestream-fused Len, coldwave
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-17
Updated: 2016-07-17
Packaged: 2018-07-24 12:21:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7508119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Defcon/pseuds/Defcon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Leonard Snart suddenly becomes self-aware after hundreds of years floating comatose through the timestream. He makes his way to the Vanishing Point, and with the help of an aged Rip Hunter learns to control his new connection to the timestream while relearning how to be the man he was before the Oculus blew.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Within You Without You

**Author's Note:**

> This is a separate, parallel story to What He Can Do that is meant to show what's going on with Len while Barry and Mick deal with his loss in the present day. You do not have to read What He Can Do to understand this story, but eventually there may be a third part that details Len's return to 2016. 
> 
> I should warn that there is very little to do with romance or relationships in this story. It's largely a character study of Len post-Legends.

Len had always prided himself on his ability to pick things up quickly. Whether it was a new subject in school, a specialized security system that needed to be disabled, or an unfamiliar piece borrowed for a job, Len loved that moment when disorientation gave way to understanding. 

Satisfaction in the timestream felt red-orange and effervescent, bubbly-cool and hissing. He’d suddenly realized that he wasn’t trapped or caught in the timestream. He was a part of it now -- could feel it all through himself like a revelation, couldn’t even remember what it felt like not to have a sixth time-sense.

He opened his eyes, then closed them, and when he opened them next--

\--he was seated on a bench in a little enclosed courtyard. All the buildings, walkways, planters were smooth and white-blue in the morning light. Len could tell that it was always morning here.

Looming beyond the gate directly opposite of where he sat was a large, geodesic dome. Like-- that place. Disneyworld.

Len had the feeling that he hadn’t read or spoken that word or thought or heard about that place in hundreds of years. He felt sleep sick.

He turned to the man sitting next to him and asked, “Am I dead?” 

The man -- Rip Hunter -- was old. Hell, he was ancient, all drooping eyelids and liver spots and riotous eyebrows. Yet the quirked mouth and the spark in his eyes spoke of youthful vitality. Len already liked him better than his 30-something-year-old counterpart.

“I was wondering when I might see you again, Mr. Snart,” Rip said, smile faltering a bit. “When my father reappeared out of the timestream, after his many years of being lost, he said that if you spent too long inside of it eventually it would find a way to make use of you.”

Rip eyed him up and down through narrowed eyes, and Len shifted, uncomfortable. For however long he’d been completely alone and totally unmonitored, and he wasn’t used to the scrutiny. He was sure that at one time he might have had a snide remark for the Time Master, but he felt at a loss.

“I’m still human,” he settled on, finally.

Rip laughed and said, “Yes, sort of. But you’ve spent so long being carried and molded by the ‘stream that you’ve got _it_ inside of you, too.”

Len frowned. “You talk about it like it’s sentient, but it’s not a person, it’s--“ he struggled to describe what he’d felt for so long without comprehending, what he could now feel rushing and beating in his chest-- “ _transcendental_. You can’t ascribe thoughts or motivations to it, not like you could to a person. To me.”

He knew that he sounded a little desperate for validation, but he’d just spent who knew how long trapped inside of a massive, unknowable force as old as the universe. Forgive him for wanting some reassurance.

“You are still human, Mr. Snart, with a name and a body and a home to return to,” Rip said. “Eventually.”

The relief must have shown on Len’s face (he was certain he hadn’t always been so easy to read) because Rip actually reached over to pat his shoulder a couple of times.

“I don’t think the timestream would’ve taken you into itself and spat you back out unless you could return to your life without upsetting the proper flow of things.” 

“Well,” Len took a deep breath, “If I’m going to be a part-time transcendental being, what better place to train than the Time Master Academy?” He tried out a small smile, hoped it looked genuine ( _’Not too genuine, if you please,’_ a small voice drawled in his head). 

Rip pushed himself to his feet, and if it taxed his old body he certainly didn’t let it show. Maybe it was the excitement of seeing an old friend. Were they friends?

“When I rebuilt this place,” Rip gestured beyond the courtyard gate, “I instituted quite a few changes. No more covert manipulations. No more cutting ourselves off from emotional attachments. In order to do their jobs properly Time Masters should be in the world, not just observers of it. We call it the Collegium, now. Feels a bit more...”

“Collegial?” Len offered.

“Certainly,” Rip replied. “Come along then, Mr. Snart, let’s set you up with a room and a bath and some proper clothes.”

Right. He was naked.

\-------

Time didn’t pass in the Vanishing Point, but bells tolled out the hour based on Greenwich Mean Time, and days were counted as though they were passing as usual. Len’d been right that outside the sky was always watery, with gentle morning rays, but inside the buildings a complicated system brightened and dimmed lights to maintain the trainees’ circadian rhythms.

Len wasn’t a trainee. In fact, he was sort of what the trainees were there to study. Nevertheless he sat in on classes and practicals, especially ones pertaining to history and to Best Practices when interfering with or manipulating the timeline. 

Periodically he felt a persistent niggling, a squirming in his gut like nerves (except _’Len Snart doesn’t get nerves’_ ), and he would step sideways--

\--and find himself elsewhere. Locations varied, but so far it was always somewhere in the twentieth or twenty-first centuries, like the timestream was starting him out easy. The first jaunts were little, instinctual fixes. An important-looking person rushing past him dropped something, so he chased them a few blocks to give it back, they smiled distractedly without really slowing down, and Len’s insides settled. He stepped sideways--

\--and found himself back in the Collegium. 

Each time he traveled like that he would sit with Rip and recall as many details as he could. Occasionally the old Time Master would pick up on something, ask Gideon to display a history of such-and-such person, and Len would confirm that that was in fact who he’d seen or helped. 

Mostly the tasks were so innocuous that neither man had any idea what exactly Leonard had accomplished in the long run, but the sense of completion and Rightness he got after each jaunt reassured him that he didn’t really need to know.

Ultimately, although he was studying alongside the Time Master trainees, their mission was not his mission. Rip was training knowledgable and caring stewards who would protect humanity’s best interests and deter the pirates who tried to manipulate the timeline for their own purposes. The power moving Len was beyond moral concerns; he was an agent of a force that didn’t care about right or wrong, just about keeping existence from unraveling. 

He tried not to think too hard about why it had been compatible with him. 

Wherever he went at the Collegium he was treated like a peer, but generally the students kept their distance, and even the instructors (who, more than the trainees, recognized Len as an anomaly) respected that he was there under the auspices of Rip Hunter and not to be pestered or studied.

With each passing day he became more comfortable both with his powers and in his own skin -- it was strange to have gone so rapidly from a weightless, sightless, trance-like state to suddenly having to think and speak and ambulate. 

The cohort of older students he occasionally ate lunch with were used to the fact that he sometimes went days without speaking. His favorite in the group was a tall blonde from 19th century America. Her parents had died on the Oregon Trail, and she’d come to the Collegium from the Orphanage. She had a laugh like a tommy gun, she always included Len in conversation (even on his quiet days), and whenever she got one over on somebody in an argument she’d flip her curls back over one shoulder. 

The twinge of pain he got in his chest whenever she did so was worth it because he never felt closer to his old life, to Lisa, than in those moments. That was the most frustrating part of his new status quo -- his entire life leading up to the Oculus felt impossibly distant. Memories came slowly, but even worse than not remembering was remembering and feeling nothing. Memories that he knew he used to shy away from, like his mother’s death or his father’s lessons, he could play over and over in his head like he was watching a movie about fictional characters. 

When he mentioned his fears to Rip the Time Master looked thoughtful, then slightly nauseated, and finally resigned. 

“There is someone who can talk you through this with a bit more empathy than myself,” Rip admitted. He pulled up some time coordinates on the watch he wore, and held it out so Len could see.

“Unfortunately he’s my father. If you can find him at this point,” Rip gestured with the watch, “He should be ready to talk to you.”

Len frowned. “I’ve never used the ‘stream without it driving,” he said. “Are you sure I can do this?”

Rip shrugged. Len waited for further explanation, but when it became clear that none was forthcoming he figured he was going to have to just give it a try. He leaned forward to read the coordinates once more, then attempted to clear his mind and let the numbers resolve themselves into a place and time. He stepped sideways--

\--and found himself in a particularly garish apartment in Midtown Manhattan. Between the Rococo paintings in gilt frames, the animal print rug (wait, no, that was an actual hide) and the massive pearl-inlay chippendale armoire, Len didn’t know where to start.

_’I think I have good taste,’_ he thought, picking up a porcelain cherub between his pointer finger and thumb, letting it dangle by the wing. _’So I guess there’s that.’_

“I wouldn’t steal that if I were you, the old lady has a weird fondness for him.”

Len jumped at the sudden voice, and whirled around to face an extremely fit, extremely attractive young man who was wearing tiny yellow track shorts, a loose blue tank top and neon pink sweatbands on his wrists and around his forehead. 

_’So it’s the 90s,’_ Len thought, mind shuffling rapidly through reference points (a Wu-Tang album; food court fries with nacho cheese; Zack Morris). 

The other man made a little moue of surprise when he saw Len’s face, then grinned and said, “Actually I guess if I were you I would steal that. What on Earth could this old bag have that Captain Cold would want? I just assumed it was all expensive, but without any real value -- put that on my tombstone, am I right? Anyway--“

“Stop!” Len narrowed his eyes, “Stop talking. How do you know who I am?”

The blond man laughed. “North Wing, second floor. The Hall of Rogues. Next to the case with your cold gun, which I squeegee’d clean every night, there was a picture of you. I don’t forget a face, that’s Networking 101. And would I be here,” he gestured to the apartment around them, “If I couldn’t network?”

Despite the many questions that this man’s “explanation” had just raised, his ability to speak continuously without pausing for air convinced Len that he was going to have to get right to the point if he wanted to get anything out of this trip.

“None of that means anything to me, but yes, I was-- _am_ Captain Cold. I was sent here by Rip Hunter to speak with his father. Is he here? Is this his apartment?”

Len’s questions were met with a peal of laughter; he crossed his arms and glowered, enraged by how attractive he still found this man. He got the feeling a lot of people would probably sympathize with him.

“Okay, whew,” the man mimed wiping a tear away from his eye, “yes his dad is here, but no this isn’t his apartment. I’m just crashing here cause it’s where my girlfriend lives. She’s like 87, but she’s hilarious and mean and she loves to shop so we’re basically soulmates. You can call me Booster, by the way.”

“You’re...” Len actually looked around the room, as though somebody was going to jump out and yell that this was a prank of some kind. “You’re Rip’s dad. Booster... Hunter?”

“Well, we have different last names, and technically my first name is Michael, but basically nobody calls me that unless they’re scolding me for something, and you haven’t known me long enough to do that. Give it an hour or two. So why did Rip think you should talk to me?”

Len steeled himself for more laughter or rambling interruptions, then launched into the brief autobiography of his life up to that point that he’d perfected in the last several months at the Collegium.

Surprisingly Booster didn’t laugh, or call him crazy, just listened, nodding, while moving restlessly around the room to lounge on or against various surfaces -- chaise, baby grand piano, waist-high cheetah carved from mahogany. He was actually straddling the cheetah and looking thoughtful when Leonard finished his story.

“Well I get why Rip sent you here. I sort of went through a similar phase, not as bad because I didn’t spend as long as you clearly did in the timestream, I mean obviously since it’s not literally inside of me the way it’s inside you, but I was lost for a long time in my ship. And I definitely struggled with the same thing, trying to remember how to be me again.”

This time Len was the one who got to laugh. “You’ll forgive me for saying, but the least of your problems is a lack of confidence in yourself.”

Booster grinned and responded, “So my hard work paid off. That’s good news for you, right? Someday all this could be yours.” He encompassed himself with one broad, flourishing gesture, and Len could feel his face and chest flushing a bit at the idea of the young man _being his_ , but he kept his expression neutral.

“Does that include the cheetah?”

Michael snorted and stood, then walked over and clapped Len on the shoulder. “I know how you’re feeling right now, like you aren’t really you, just someone who knows all the details and stories of your life. Like the next best thing to the real thing? The world’s preeminent Leonard Snart expert?”

Len nodded hesitantly. 

“If you think about it,” Booster continued, “Your tiny human brain survived for hundreds, maybe thousands, of years in the face of an incomprehensible assault on all of your senses. In order to protect your sanity you closed yourself off, and now your brain is slowly recovering. The facts and memories are the first to come back because they’re simpler to process; the emotional layers are harder-- they’ll take more time.”

Booster picked up the cherub and handed it to Len. “I think it’s a good sign that you want to feel those feelings again. That you can’t just let them go. When I got out of the ‘stream, it was like I was joyously reunited with all the people I loved and simultaneously meeting them for the first time. The more we talked and laughed, the more those neural pathways opened back up. I think you’ll get there, too.”

Len could hardly believe it, but he actually felt better. The things Booster said made sense -- ironically, he would probably just have to give it time.

“Before I go, can I ask you something personal?” Len asked.

Booster grinned, “I wish you would. I love talking about me.”

Len thought that he hadn’t ever met someone quite like Booster. “Why come back here, and not the last point you left before getting stranded in the ‘stream? Isn’t it risky?” he asked.

For the first time in their encounter the smile dropped off of Booster’s face -- maybe he hadn’t realized that Len, having the timestream inside him, could sense that the man wasn’t in his proper place in the timeline.

“Listen, the universe -- the _multiverse_ \-- ain’t what it used to be, CC. And I was there when that all went down,” Booster said, tugging off his sweatband and running a hand through his hair. 

“You’re looking at me now, thinking 'What’s this himbo know about sacrifice?' Well I did the Big Damn Hero thing, I unraveled the bad guy’s master plan, and it lead to my best friend being killed by a guy we thought we could trust, my other best friend turning out to be a psycho murder-bot, and the creation of a whole new timeline that looked so different I wasn’t even sure I existed anymore.” 

Booster took a big breath, exhaled gustily, then shot Len a coy grin. “Of course part of that was your man the Flash’s fault. Point is, I looked at the timeline and saw an opportunity to come back to the happiest part of my life, so I took it.” 

Len shrugged; that was fair. And since there was no churning or tugging in his gut to tell him otherwise, he assumed that the timeline would be preserved some other way. Hell, maybe it was something he would do -- Booster had mentioned the Flash, after all.

“Thanks for this, Booster,” Len said, “I mean the chat, not the hideous collectible.”

Booster grinned, “No problem. Hey, do me a favor? Tell Rip we stole something, or did something dastardly. The only thing I love more than talking about myself is scandalizing my son.”

Len felt bold. He took a step closer so he could feel the heat radiating off of the other man’s mostly exposed chest, then wrapped the hand not holding the cherub around the back of Booster’s neck.

“I ain’t telling him I stole anything I didn’t actually take,” Len growled, then pulled the blond into a kiss mostly guided by sense memory (if the noises Booster was making were any indication he must’ve been doing a pretty good job). He pulled back with one last nip, matched Booster’s grin, then stepped sideways--

\--into his room at the Collegium. He threw the cherub at a pile of laundry, tore his shirt off over his head and pushed his pants down, already palming himself through his briefs. He’d just had his first kiss in hundreds of years, with probably the hottest person he’d ever seen in real life, and Rip could damn well wait for a mission report until tomorrow.

Maybe he’d even leave this part out.

\-------

After his visit to Booster, Len decided to do something he knew for a fact the old him would have hated: he waited things out, and stopped micromanaging his recovery. 

It was more or less successful because when he stopped trying to chase memories down they started returning at quicker intervals. And the more he tried to live his life spontaneously -- eating food that sounded or looked good; saying what was on his mind; assessing situations based on how he felt and not how he thought he should be feeling -- the more he found himself becoming himself again.

Christina Elizabeth, his 19th century pal, picked up on his fondness for puns (and wordplay generally) and introduced him to a game that involved taking turns telling a story where each person’s sentence had to begin with the last syllable from the previous sentence.

In return he’d stepped out to 2000 to pick up some Mad Libs books he thought she might get a kick out of. As he stood in line to pay, the stray thought that Mick had once categorically refused to set a store on fire in case it spread to the book shop next door triggered a wave of longing and nostalgia so powerful he actually felt tears welling up.

“Jesus, Mick!” He lurched forward, and was about to step sideways when a hand shot out and gripped his upper arm, steadying him.

“Whoah there son, are you okay?” The man behind him in line looked concerned, but Len didn’t spare him more than a mumble and a nod as he pushed by him and rushed for the bathroom.

After the trip to 2000 it seemed like he couldn’t get through a single day, a meal, a class without something making him think (and _feel_ ) about his partner. Sometimes he woke up in the night, panting, missing the other man so acutely that he nearly said ‘Fuck it’ and left the Collegium for 2015. Only the knowledge that Mick would barely recognize the man he was now gave him pause.

That probably wasn’t entirely fair to Mick, or to himself and the progress that he’d made. But the same power inside of him that told him when something, somewhere needed to be fixed reassured him that he was where he was supposed to be at the current point. 

The oldest cohort of trainees was graduating in 75 days; Len decided that, regardless of how he felt about his progress, when those trainees left he would too.

And screw the timestream if it thought otherwise. 

\-------

11 days to graduation Len felt the fish hook in his gut, handed his journal and textbook to Christina Elizabeth (who was used to it by now), and stepped sideways--

\--into the middle of a street. 

As he’d settled into his role (it was hard not to think of it as a job) Len had honed his ability to place himself after a jaunt by reaching out with his connection to the timestream. He did so, and determined that it was 2016, and he was in Central City. 

None of that told him why he was standing in the middle of a suburban street, just after sundown on a perfectly normal day in May. There wasn’t even anybody else around, just him--

Len shouted as he was suddenly flung backwards. He hit the pavement hard on his left shoulder, then rolled, but he was back on his feet as fast as possible trying to figure out what hit him. It had felt like the timestream, almost -- a parallel force. Some sort of headwind had knocked into him when it was trying to seek access to the ‘stream.

Without knowing entirely what he was doing, Len pushed back, physically, mentally, _transcendentally_ \-- using all of his effort to prevent whatever this thing was from ripping a hole in space and time and gaining access to the timestream. 

His vision whited out for a moment as time and speed collided, and he suddenly had the feeling of weightlessness that he remembered from being inside of the ‘stream. He could still see the street and the houses around him, but he knew that if someone were to look out their window they wouldn’t see him at all.

Which was just as well, since the mysterious force had given way to reveal a crumpled form lying on the asphalt, and a woman hovering just beyond, invisible to anyone but Len. She had pretty auburn hair and sad eyes; she nodded her thanks to Len before vanishing from even his sight.

Now it was just Len and -- the figure groaned and rolled over -- _Barry Allen_. Who of course still couldn’t see Len, since if he could he probably wouldn’t be wrapping his arms around his knees and sobbing. Len couldn’t comfort Barry; at this point the speedster hadn’t even heard about Len’s supposed death. But he wanted to, strangely. Wanted to gather Barry close and soothe in a way that he’d really only ever done for Lisa (Lord knew Mick was more than capable of licking his own wounds).

Len would have readily admitted, prior to the Oculus, to a preoccupation with the Flash. Barry was kind and hopeful, despite having suffered the sorts of blows that had turned Len to a life of crime. And sure, Barry’s insistence that there was more to Len may have played a part in his decision to join Rip’s mission through time, but to the extent that Len had thought of being with the hero it had been in a purely physical sense. Even if Mick liked to tease him about carrying on an emotional affair.

Now, watching the younger man cry and tug at his hair, Len caught glimpses through the ‘stream of a speedster in black, another world, a harrowing chase, Barry’s shocked and desperate scream. Len was aware suddenly of how long he’d been gone, how much he’d missed -- not just the hundreds of years in the timestream, but also the handful of months between the last time he’d seen Barry and now.

The roiling inside of him had settled. Clearly he’d successfully averted the crisis he’d been sent to prevent. He wished he could stay longer, but soon the side effects of tapping directly into the source of his powers would wear off, and Barry would become aware of his presence. He stepped sideways--

\--and collected his journal and book from Christina Elizabeth.

“Len,” she frowned, reaching into her satchel and holding out a packet of tissues, “Are you all right?”

\-------

On the day of the oldest cohort’s graduation, Len and Rip sat in the courtyard and took in the chatter and excited atmosphere at the Collegium.

Graduates who hailed from a period when the concept of time travel and the Time Masters were known were allowed to bring guests to the Vanishing Point for the ceremony. The rest of the graduating class seemed satisfied to be surrounded by their friends and peers.

Earlier that day Len’s whistle when Christina Elizabeth was given her orders was so piercing that she’d instantly found him in the crowd and shot him a wink.

“I know it’s time for you to return home,” Rip said, reaching across the bench to hand Len a laminated I.D. card, “But I wanted to give you this before you left.”

Len quirked an eyebrow as he took the card.

“So you don’t feel left out,” Rip explained.

The card had Len’s mugshot with his height and eye color listed beneath, and bullet points that read:

LEONARD SNART  
\- PART-TIME TRANSCENDENTAL BEING  
\- HONORARY TIME MASTER  
\- ROBBER OF ATMS

Len grinned and pocketed the card. “Thanks, though I suspect the administrative office would take issue with me being considered even an honorary Time Master. I barely completed half the classes.”

Rip waved a hand, “It’s not like you need to learn how to pilot a time ship, you’re your own bloody transport. And anyway it’s my school, my rules.”

“I’m going to miss this place,” Len said. “Think we’ll see each other again?”

Rip smiled somewhat beguilingly. “Oh, maybe. In your future or my past. I suppose we’ll find out.”

“Yep,” Len replied, standing up and stretching the kink in his back, “I guess we will.”

Len stepped sideways--


End file.
